Dancing Lessons
by LitRaptor42
Summary: Diego takes Mia to her first tango lessons. And it is sexy. From Mia's POV.


Oh my gee, I've wanted to publish this for AGES. It's really simple, but please tell me it's as fun to read as it was to write.

* * *

~~ Dancing Lessons ~~

* * *

Mia stared in disbelief as Diego knelt and reached under the bed, pulling out a shoebox. "Are you serious?" she asked incredulously, half-laughing. "You actually have _dancing_ shoes?"

He looked up, the customary grin in place. "What? You don't think I keep this fabulous body in shape just for the courtroom, do you, Kitten?" He sat back down on the bed next to her and pulled them out of the box. She had to admit they were quite snazzy: two-tone wingtips with old-fashioned metal grommets on the laces. They were also obviously well-loved, with scuffs on the soles and a polish that practically reflected her face. He hadn't lied when he'd said this was something he'd done for a long time.

Despite herself, Mia was getting excited. It was a Friday night, and she was going dancing.

At first she'd put her foot down—or at least she'd tried. Mia had never learned any kind of patterned dancing before, and the thought of a swing class was terrifying. What made things even worse was going with Diego: she had no doubt that, like everything else he did, his dancing was impeccably brilliant.

But, as usual, he'd charmed her into it. "Don't be silly, Kitten. You're so graceful. I would just take you to my usual tango digs," he'd explained, "but since you don't actually know tango it might be a bit…intimidating. So to be fair I signed us up for a swing class, since I don't know that very well. You won't feel so new."

So she'd agreed, at least half because she still felt too shy to say no. It was really only their third date. Mia had never considered herself timid around men—in fact, she'd punched an overeager classmate back in college, her only brush with the wrong side of the law. There was just something about Diego, though. She'd never met someone who so thoroughly deserved to be arrogant about his accomplishments, and her breath still caught in her throat sometimes when he addressed her.

"Do you want to change before we go?" he asked now, startling her.

Mia stood up, surveying her outfit. It was just a suit from work, and she'd thought it comfortable enough for dancing. "Why? Should I be more… colorful?"

Diego laughed, the sound sending a shiver up her spine, as always. She felt even more shy as his dark gaze ran over her body, completely without lasciviousness yet still sensual. "Mmm…no, though that would be nice, too. I was just thinking you might want to put on a longer skirt, kitten. And maybe a jacket that's not so tight."

Mia half-opened her mouth to indignantly object, but then realized he wasn't criticizing her outfit (quite the opposite: his eyes still lingered somewhere in the location of her waist) but rather trying to save it. Her fingers trembled for a moment behind her back at the thought of it. "Um… okay. Can we stop by my apartment?"

"Of course," he answered. As they left the room, his hand came to her waist, and she could feel its warmth, despite how lightly he touched her. _This is going to be one hell of a night_, she thought.

* * *

That had been two months ago. Tonight would be their first tango lesson, and her heart was chugging like a freight train. It hadn't gotten any less intimidating.

"Does it look all right?" she asked anxiously.

"Spin," was all he said. Frowning in confusion, Mia obeyed. The skirt she'd chosen—a little black layered thing she hadn't worn in ages—spun out in a whirl of silk, showing her knees. He laughed in a low, pleased tone. "Perfect."

She surveyed herself in the mirror. Well, it wasn't her usual look, but it was all right. At least the skirt matched her black heels, and the red sleeveless shirt had a scalloped bosom that modestly displayed her best aspects. Besides that, she would match her dance partner. Diego was wearing his usual cream pinstripe vest and a white tie, but the shirt he'd chosen was some kind of black and shiny fabric, and his trousers—she'd laughed out loud when he'd showed up wearing them—had a red bloodstripe down each leg, giving him a rakish Han Solo kind of look.

Still, she always felt like a spinster in such a long skirt. Mia looked up at Diego to see what he thought, and all her doubts vanished. This was the first time she'd ever understood the word _smoldering_ when applied to eyes. She took the hand offered to her, and was pulled in none too gently for a kiss.

At times like these, Mia occasionally found her brain thinking independently of her body: right now it was thinking what she'd missed all those years at Kurain, living the life of a nun when she could have been digging into every romantic author's dream.

Diego stepped back abruptly, but with his arm still around her. Automatically, Mia stepped with him, was led into back-and-forth motion, thrown out, tugged back into a spin, and leaned back.

She felt herself trembling as he kissed the hollow of her throat and pulled her back up. She could face down murderers in court (ish), but not dance with her steady boyfriend.

"I think you'll do just fine with tango," he said.

"Oh God," she replied. He laughed as she reached out to snag her clutch, and they left the apartment.

* * *

Stepping into the low-lit room, Mia forced herself to hold her head high. Apparently her effort was obvious; Diego leaned close. "Kitten, you're gorgeous, and you're on the arm of a master. Don't be nervous."

She looked around. A large number of dancers had arrived; it wasn't the traditional ballroom setting of their swing classes, but the large upper dance floor of a popular bar. The band was warming up, the drummer brushing out a few beats on his splash cymbal as the bassist plucked up and down scales and a trumpet player blatted out a few arpeggios. Thin women in ruffled tops were sipping martinis, watching doe-eyed from the bar as mismatched couples practiced steps together on the scuffed wooden floor. Young men, many of them wearing outfits similar to Diego's (but few of them pulling it off quite so well) eyed the women; as Mia watched, one college-age boy strolled to the bar, made a move, and was coolly rebuffed. She felt a little ill.

"Well, well," said a voice abruptly, drawing Mia's attention away. It was a tall, handsome youth, dressed in a tuxedo, his smile very white in an equally dark face. He had addressed himself to Diego, and added, "You're early for a change."

"I didn't want the lady to miss anything," Diego said fondly, and with a start Mia realized he meant her. Then his grin flashed, and he let go of her, pulled the younger man into a hug. "How are you doing, Massimo? It feels like forever, kiddo."

"It _has_ been forever, old man," Massimo countered. Mia wondered where the obvious friendship between the two of them had originated, but couldn't place the vibe she was getting. Obviously the young man was another dancer, but what else?

Diego turned to her, eyes reflecting the light from the bar. "This... is Mia Fey." He didn't add more; there was no need. Mia had never felt so spectacularly displayed in only four words, his voice making up for every syllable that could have been added. "Mia, this is Massimo. He runs the place, but I only put up with him because he's a family friend."

Well, that answered her question: obviously he and Diego had known one another for years. "_Enchanté_," she said, only half-jokingly. This young man barely looked old enough to graduate high school, much less run a bar, and she felt shyer every moment.

Massimo took her extended hand as if to shake it, but turned her knuckles up at the last moment to place a debonair and very serious kiss on them. "Likewise, Ms. Fey."

A microphone whined somewhere: on the bandstage Mia could see a black-clad man with large headphones fiddling with the equipment. "Well, I guess that's my cue," said Massimo. "Lead us well, old man." With that he turned and loped toward the stage.

Mia turned slowly to her dancing partner: he noticed her glaring, and asked, "What?"

"You're the leader tonight?" She cocked her head. "As in, teaching the moves and using me to help demonstrate?"

Diego had the grace to look confused, then chagrined. "Kitten, you didn't know that? I'm sorry: I thought I said that, when we first went out dancing together. Maybe I just said this was my usual place." Grimacing and looking around, he added, "Do you want me to ask another lady to dance with me? I'd really rather dance with you, but…"

"Why?" The word was out of her mouth before Mia could even think about it. She was really only half-angry, since his were obviously genuine emotions: but she hated the idea of wearing something like this in front of so many other women, dancing moves she'd never done before…

He made a noise somewhere between a disbelieving snort and a laugh. "Why? Mia, do you even have to ask? You're the most beautiful woman in the room, and when I dance with you it's like…" For once Diego seemed at a loss, and finally he shrugged good-naturedly, grinning at her and holding her out at arm's length. "We move together. Tango with you… will be the sexiest thing I've ever done."

"I doubt that," she retorted immediately, but without rancor. That was another thing about Diego: for all his arrogance, no one knew how to give a more graceful compliment.

He laughed and pulled her in close again. "Thanks, I think. Kitten, trust me. All the women in this room will want to be you by the time free dance rolls around."

* * *

Two hours later, both of them were sitting at the bar; Mia felt a drop of sweat rolling down her forehead, and blotted it away a cocktail napkin, feeling Diego's eyes on her. Picking up her cosmopolitan, she raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of the glass.

"Don't… taunt me… Kitten," he said, his voice so low she could barely hear it over the music.

"Your fault," she answered, placing the glass back on the bar very slowly. "Give me a few minutes."

He mock-sighed, swiveling his stool to lean back against the bar, eyes still furtively sliding toward her. His right hand casually circled the stem of a martini glass, but he hadn't yet touched the drink, his third in as many minutes. Mia smiled to herself. She really was exhausted, but the thrill of dancing was pounding through her bloodstream now. Still she waited, closing her eyes and feeling the fans on the ceiling touch her hair.

It hadn't been as hard as she'd expected. Tango—or at least the kind Diego had taught tonight—seemed to mostly involve pressing herself against her partner and moving with him wherever they went. With a bad leader, it might have been difficult for her to follow, since the movement was so instinctually based upon the matching of steps and body angles.

But as with everything else he did, Diego did not merely lead well, but dazzlingly. She had not once felt lost, especially since many of the other dancers were new, and he was patiently giving everyone verbal instructions. Besides that, the dance style was so intimate that Mia wondered how she could dance with anyone else. Pressed against his body, she could practically feel his heartbeat, and the movement led both of them into a state of high heat. She could feel every other person on the floor watching them as he took her through a solo dance to demonstrate footwork.

Now Mia was simply trying to cool down: the room was barely even warm, and her half-finished drink was still at least moderately cold, but even the thought of going back out on the dance floor was making her blood boil. Diego had been right: dancing like that tonight had been the sexiest thing she had ever done.

The song ended, to a great shower of applause as the male dancers brought their partners up from dips, or let them out for another. The young man named Massimo was up on the stage, announcing something first in English, then another language: a cheer went up from some of the dancers, ostensibly regulars.

"Uh-oh," said Diego under his breath, as some of those same dancers began beckoning to him. "Kitten… I'm afraid this is one dance I can't sit out. Are you up for it?" He stood, threw back the martini in one effortless movement, and held out a hand; his eyes were half-taunting, but also half-begging.

Mia had never felt so powerful or beautiful: her will tamped down by the effect of the drink, and her body straining toward his, she stood up and took the offered hand. "It's either that or let you dance with someone else."

A short whistle greeted their entry onto the dance floor, as well as more than a few shouts and clapped hands. Mia felt her heart pounding in anticipation, but all of her nervousness had vanished in a cloud of alcohol. As the band opened, she twirled, feeling the skirt billow out around her, and watched in amazement as Diego stepped out, executing a neat pattern of footwork that she couldn't have imitated if she had tried. Their hands met, then their hips.

She didn't remember much of the dance that followed, and knew that she fumbled his lead more than once. But as they moved across the floor, she found herself wondering if the Spanish (or the Brazilians, or whatever race of geniuses had invented this dance) had designed it this way so they could make love publicly and with a minimum of sexual contact. Diego's low voice murmured in her ear, singing along with Massimo's vocals: God, he even knew the _words_ perfectly.

Despite being only the fifth tango of her life, it was the best time Mia had ever had.

They weren't the only couple on the floor; Mia felt another woman's full sleeve brush against her more than once, as the maneuvers got increasingly complicated. But as the song came to an end, rather than leading her into a convoluted series of finishing motions—as the other men were doing with their partners—Diego simply pulled her close.

Feeling brazen, she lifted one leg high in the air and was leaned back to an impossible angle. It probably looked much more daring than it was: his knee was under her back the whole time, but with her neck bent all the way, she could see the floor.

There was a sigh of satisfaction from someone as the drummer struck his last crash and the pianist ran a series of ascending arpeggios to end the song. Mia found herself pulled up again, her cheeks flaming as Diego kissed her more fiercely than before. When she looked at the audience, all of the women had daggers in their eyes.

Mia Fey felt like a goddess.

* * *

They beat a hasty retreat from the dance floor: obviously Diego had had enough of showing up all the other dancers, and led her down the stairs to the bar below.

It was an ultra-lounge setting, with couches, and once they had acquired new drinks, Mia found herself on his lap. They sat for a while without speaking, the muted music a pleasant contrast from the raucous banging upstairs.

She took a long swig of her fresh cosmopolitan, finishing it, and set it on the glass coffee table. His dark gaze was following her every move. "Well… I have to admit, I did have fun. Thank you for a really wonderful night."

"I should be thanking you," he answered; she thought for a moment she had mistaken his words. But he repeated it, his eyes strangely soulful as he enunciated every word, his arm firming around her waist. "I should thank you, Mia. Honey, you're a pass, and I'm a catch, and we're a perfect match."

"I think maybe you mean I'm a prize, and you're a catch," Mia said, somewhat confused—he'd never quoted song lyrics to her before. She leaned back slightly, trying to gauge his expression to figure out what the hell he had meant: then she realized. "Are you drunk?"

Diego stared at her for a moment, then his eyebrows furrowed. "I wouldn't say _drunk_, but it's entirely possible that I'm intoxicated. I don't drink very often, Kitten."

Mia snorted, covering her mouth with a hand. It was true: the only beverages she'd ever seen him consume on their dates or anywhere else had always contained caffeine, not alcohol, and he was four martinis deep. "I… Wow. Well, why did you drink tonight?"

"To loosen up my form. But the same reason you did," he answered affectionately, leaning his head against her shoulder. "Courage."

Her mind still gawking over the fact that she had a better tolerance for anything than Diego Armando, Mia didn't really feel a need to ask why he had required courage. New tango partner, perhaps. "I guess this means I'm driving home."

"I wish we could have had that dance for the rest of my life. We're perfect together," was his response, his eyes closed. Then he sighed in contentment, lean face pressed against her shoulder: for all the world Mia felt like she was with her little sister. She thought for a moment about getting out her phone and taking a picture. But that wouldn't quite be fair: besides that, who else would she show it to?

And all things considered, Mia wasn't about to turn down romance. Diego did usually treat her genteelly and with a minimum of arrogance and condescension (as opposed to pretty much everyone else), but this kind of uncharacteristic mushiness was more than welcome. Both of them were under a tremendous amount of stress at work: Mia hadn't advocated in court since February, but she was constantly preparing memoranda and researching for the senior lawyers, and Diego was always arguing at the bar. On top of that, they were both still pursuing _California v. Fawles_ under the radar, and were getting more than a little resistance from the prosecutors' offices.

He was humming now, only barely audible over the low music, but Mia couldn't put her finger on the tune. Maybe it was just one of the songs from the dancing tonight.

A vague thrill went through Mia, and with a blush of shame she realized it was a greedy little plan, forming itself in the back of her head. She knew that other women seduced their boyfriends…

Mia sighed. No… though it was terribly tempting, the two of them still hadn't gotten past the genteel stage of their relationship. A liaison—_oh, just say sex_, she thought to herself furiously—could ruin the delicate unspoken agreement they'd been operating under since the death of Terry Fawles. Mia didn't kid herself: she liked Diego quite a lot, and to all appearances the feeling was mutual. But being an old-fashioned girl, she'd rather wait to see what he thought. Preferably when he was sober.

She reached down and plucked the empty martini glass from his hand, ignoring the surprised, pretend-hurt look: "Come on, tiger," she said, extricating herself carefully, as not to flash the whole bar. "Let's get out of here before you make me dance again."

* * *

His car wasn't anything terribly flashy, which had surprised her the first time she'd seen it. But it was sleek, it was a fairly new model… and most importantly of all, it was a stick shift. Mia hadn't been offered driving lessons by her aunt Morgan or anyone inside Kurain, and subsequently had taken it upon herself to bribe teenage boys to take her out in their sports cars. Automatics bored her.

She slid into the driver's seat as he did the opposite on the passenger's side, pressed the clutch and turned the key, slipping it into neutral. The radio came on, the same station they'd been listening to on the way into the city, and she soaked in the muted roar of the engine, almost drowning out the slow samba.

"I love that look. The complete satisfaction of power," Diego said, eyes half-closed as he leaned back in the passenger seat, apparently as relaxed as could be. "Don't you wish you could bottle it, for when the boss starts telling you about his health problems?"

Mia laughed, shivering. "Ugh, yes." The image tickled her, and she laughed again. She could envision Diego, leaning back just like he was now but in his office chair, pulling the cork from a bottle and releasing a miasma of engine noise, the smell of leather, and a rumbling purr underneath the seat. "Maybe I'll think of this next time Hammond has me write one of his appellate briefs."

"The man has no other motivation besides self-interest," Diego agreed placidly.

His eyes were completely closed now, and Mia couldn't help but gaze at them. Before dating the man in front of her, she'd never given much thought to her own particular personal tastes in men. Now she knew: the long and sombre lashes, surmounted by the deceivingly mild dark brows which could slash into anger in an instant, combined to provide the impression that someone had drawn a sooty finger across his eyes, making them the most noticeable part of his face. She was irresistibly drawn to them; she could feel her lips tingling to kiss them.

Mia turned away, feeling her fingers actually shake; _Get ahold of yourself, Fey!_ she thought sternly. Liking him was one thing: being in love with him was quite another.

Uncomfortably self-aware, Mia said nothing, just flicked the stick into reverse and pulled out of the parking space. She anxiously checked for traffic flying from either side of the parkway, and zipped out of the lot, probably a little too fast. She felt the immense satisfaction of a drag racer as the tires squealed a little.

Diego was smiling again, eyes still tranquilly closed. "Whoa there, Kitten," he said lazily, eyes still closed. "Let's get home alive."

* * *

Affection was a strange emotion to apply to a living space, but nevertheless Mia felt very affectionately about her apartment. Small but classy, it managed to look at least twice as big as it really was, and had never failed to give her goosebumps of excitement. Her own place! For the first fifteen years of her life she'd expected to live in Kurain forever, kneeling on tatami mats as the sun shone through sliding doors made of bamboo.

Now, not only did she have a private apartment, but a man to bring into it. They were barely through the door when Diego put his arms around her again. She thought about bringing up the fact that he wasn't just intoxicated anymore—he was _drunk_—but decided not to as he pulled her into another dance position and slammed the door with his foot.

This time it was just a simple slow dance, his hand all the way around her waist; Mia laid her head on his shoulder as they two-stepped into the living room. "Nice place," he said softly, genuinely. "I love the colors."

"Thank you."

Diego sighed, kissing the top of her head and swaying his hips, slightly changing the dance. Mia moved right along with him. "I'm disappointed as hell to suggest it, but... I get the futon, right?"

Mia felt herself blushing, and almost wished he hadn't spoken. She'd been half a second from dancing him right into her bedroom and onto the bed. "Yeah," she answered quietly, after a moment. "I don't know if I'm... if I'm quite ready to go there yet." It was only half a lie.

"Mmm-hmm," he murmured, in the most understanding of tones. There was no music to speak of, and no sound except the tapping of their shoes: but he led her around the room, moving her body so they stepped sideways, forwards, backwards together. "I guess I already got to make love to you once tonight, Kitten—no fair making you do both kinds in one night."

"What?" Mia asked, startled and wondering for one panicked second if she'd passed out drunk and didn't remember it.

Then she realized what he meant, and smile. "Oh, you mean the tango?"

"Mmm-hmm." This time it was satisfaction in Diego's voice, almost a moan of agreement. She felt his lips on the back of her neck, warm and gentle. "I'll never dance with anyone else again, Kitten."


End file.
